


and the water was honey

by neondvcks



Series: here, in the fairy wood [2]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: F/M, Fairy Tale Elements, Hansel and Gretel Elements, fjord continues to walk into fairy tales where jester has set up shop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:54:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23262787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neondvcks/pseuds/neondvcks
Summary: There lives a witch in the woods.She smells of cinnamon and sugar and keeps her victims in cages to fatten them up. Fjord has been in town two days and has already heard about her thrice. It rings different, though, from the mouth of a shaking kid; even if he caught her trying to put her hand down his purse. Her eyes are big and pleading and her fear is so tangible it nearly hurts him.
Relationships: Fjord/Jester Lavorre
Series: here, in the fairy wood [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1672546
Comments: 6
Kudos: 72





	and the water was honey

**Author's Note:**

> I guess inserting these characters into Fairy Tale settings is a thing now; do note that this a standalone piece. As always please excuse any inevitable mistakes and inconsistent writing.

There lives a witch in the woods.

She is dangerous and terrifying and has an insatiable hunger for children. Fjord is told about her within hours of arriving in town. One of the dockworkers warns him with a laugh when he asks about the endless trees expanding onto the horizon and a few others join in on the joke; spinning tales of nightly visits and boiling pots filled with uneaten vegetables.

A cautionary tale then, Fjord decides, told to children to keep from misbehaving, to keep them in line. There had been plenty of those when he was growing up, though they were surely less imaginative than flesh-eating witches.

* * *

There lives a witch in the woods.

She has hoofed feet and twisted horns and she sing sweet lullabies to lure people into her hut. Fjord doesn’t put much stock in fairy tales, even less so when it’s the tavern drunk who’s spouting them. The man is old and his voice carries throughout the entire establishment as he talks about disappearing nephews and curious ritualistic markings.

Fjord has known many men like this one, lost in the haze of spirits and grief, plagued by invisible horrors buried deep within their minds. Harmless, really, to anyone but themselves.

* * *

There lives a witch in the woods.

She smells of cinnamon and sugar and keeps her victims in cages to fatten them up. Fjord has been in town two days and has already heard about her thrice. It rings different, though, from the mouth of a shaking kid; even if he caught her trying to put her hand down his purse. Her eyes are big and pleading and her fear is so tangible it nearly hurts him.

Fjord understands children like this better than he understands anything. From the stubborn set of her jaw fighting against the trembling of her lower lip to the ratty, ill-fitting clothes on her back. Alone and desperately looking for a family.

* * *

There might actually live a witch in the woods.

Her house is hidden beneath the dark canopy and decorated with an array of oddities. Fjord curses the child’s ability to tug at his heartstrings and coax a promise out of him as he studies the sweets and baked-goods lining the roof and walls. The faint scent of cinnamon hangs in the air.

It’s curiosity rather than bravery that drives him forward. With his hand on the hilt of his sword he inhales once (an overwhelming breath of sugar) and knocks on the door. The sound is muffled by the gingerbread and for a long moment nothing happens.

Then a soft musical voice filters through one of the sugar-paned windows:

_“Nibble, nibble like a mouse, who’s nibbling at my house?”_

There is no pause, no wait for an answer; the door simply opens with a gentle creak. Fjord peers into the dimly lit room, hesitating only slightly before tightening the grip on his sword and stepping over the threshold.

With the curtains drawn the only light comes from a fire burning in the hearth, casting eerie shadows onto the floor. A large table surrounded by a mismatch of chairs sits in the middle of the room, a warm sweet smell drifts up from the stove on his right. Aside from his own shuffling feet, the ticking of an ornate clock is the only sound until—

_“Friend or foe?”_

Fjord whirls around quickly, sword halfway out of its sheath. There, in front of the now-closed door, stands a figure hidden by shadows - it's only discernible features the curling horns and coiling tail. A sudden rush of blood fills his ears as his heart beats out a warning sign in his chest.

The voice continues, though it doesn’t seem to come from the creature’s mouth: _“A weary traveller looking for warmth or a sneaky thief looking for trouble?”_

He steadies himself - slow breath in, slow breath out - determined to keep the trembling out of his reply.

“Friend, I hope.”

There is a long pause - made longer by the fear clawing at his throat - before suddenly the figure in front of him wavers then disappears into thin air as the curtains fly open and bright daylight streams into the hut.

 _“Oh, thank Gods,”_ someone pipes up near his elbow, causing him to jump. “I just made scones and they really are best when they are still warm.”

Smiling merrily stands a young woman barely a foot from him, in her hands a tray of delicious smelling pastries. Smaller than he had imagined her to be with cheerful eyes and a soft accent to her words, the horns on her head seem far less threatening - even the fangs in the corners of her mouth don’t seem to betray any bloodthirst.

Bewildered Fjord looks on as she places the scones onto the table and turns her attention towards the handful of children that seem to have climbed out of odd places all throughout the room (he must imagine one of them appearing out of the clock). One of them, with a beak and ruffled feathers, blinks curiously at his tusks as they all sit down and excitedly reach for jars of jam and cups of milk.

Surely, he thinks, this is when he ought to wake up.

“Won’t you join us, mister…?” The woman gestures to an empty chair, still smiling pleasantly even as her gaze flickers down to the sword at his side. The children all peer up at him with a mixture of expectation and wariness.

“Fj—Fjord.” He clears his throat as he cautiously sits down, still scanning the room for any potential threats. “The name’s Fjord.”

“ _Fjord_ ,” she echoes, pleased. “I’m Jester.”

It is always ill-advised to take food or drink from strangers - even more so from strangers living in edible houses hidden away in dark forests. Still, when the offer is made with such eagerness, such generosity, it becomes significantly harder to refuse. In the end, Fjord eats two scones.

* * *

As a sailor Fjord knows that to survive a rip-current one can only stay calm; resistance is futile and only increases the chances of fatality. Being near Jester feels oddly similar to the sensation of being dragged out to sea; overwhelming and disorientating and strangely exhilarating. More than once does his breath escape him.

Jester asks countless questions (aided by the bravest of the children) and happily interjects her own anecdotes and wisdom wherever she sees fit. Repeatedly, Fjord finds himself staring at her for a beat too long - at her open-mouthed laugh and the way her nose scrunches, at the way her skirts twirl when she gracefully moves about and her tail dances behind her - and when she catches him with raised eyebrows his face flushes so hot he wonders if it couldn’t all still be a fever dream.

Somehow he ends up out back, axe in hand and a pile of woodblocks at his feet, two of the kids at his side for supervision. They laugh with him as much as at him now; don’t seem as perturbed by his monstrous appearance. That is until he mentions their sister and fear and confusion and hope flicker over their small faces.

Watching them retreat hastily to the hut, a bird joyfully chirping from a nearby tree, Fjord cannot blame them. Had he been presented with a place like this at their age he would’ve done anything within his miserable power to keep the outside world from creeping in. Even now a part of him yearns for the sanctuary within those gingerbread walls.

* * *

A comfortable quietness falls over the hut once the children settle in for the night. Jester and he sit at the scrubbed-down table, the fire crackling, a pot of tea between them. The scratching of her pencil as she scribbles in her journal is oddly soothing and for a little while he wishes not to speak. He wishes to sit here with her and her peculiarities and warmth until the days run out.

“They have families that miss them.”

“They would not have come here if they hadn’t been lost and alone,” she dismisses.

“They need to go home,” he pleads.

“They need to be safe,” she counters.

“ _Jester_ —”

“Do you have family Fjord?” she demands, suddenly; eyes bright.

He looks away as something akin to shame fills his chest.

“No,” he admits, gruffly.

She leans forward, carefully putting her hand on his and waits until he meets her gaze once more.

Softly she says: “that’s why you found us.”

It’s there then, mirrored within her; something painfully familiar. Slowly he takes her hand into his own.

“Where is _your_ family Jester?”

Her shoulders slump only slightly; when she speaks her voice trembles with emotion.

“I can't go home.”

They sit there, at the scrubbed-down table, hands intertwined between them, the night stretching on.

* * *

There lives a witch in the woods.

She keeps the company of a terrible monster with sickly green skin and grotesque teeth. Children stray to her house and return their heads filled with ridiculous fancies and their fingers sticky, rambling about endless pastries and undying fires and other such absurdities.

It is said that at dusk, when the wind blows just right, one can hear her laughter ringing through the trees.


End file.
